


Trouble

by voksen



Series: WKverse [24]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Clone Sex, Clonecest, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-22
Updated: 2009-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Schuldig gets information on a Rosenkreuz program and I still can't figure out whether clones count as underage or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble

Schuldig knows something's up before they even start the long drive up into the mountains; this close to Rosenkreuz, to Eszet, he's wary, hyperalert, already watching for the inevitable backstabbing.

Rosenkreuz, despite what Crawford says about Nagi when the kid's not listening, trains people well in the things that really matter.

But Crawford is tense in the passenger seat, his fingers tapping at the window - it's a huge tell; if Schuldig were doing it, he'd have told him to knock it off long ago, but he's been tapping, a measured, even staccato, for miles - and hasn't seemed to even notice. (It's annoying Nagi deeply, but the kid has the sense to sit tight and keep his mouth shut, for which Schuldig is grateful, considering their location.)

He turns the car up onto the narrow road and opens his mouth to ask what's up, but before he has the first word formed, Crawford cuts him off.

"Just drive," he says tersely, and pulls his hand away from the window (a whisper of relief from the back seat), resting his arm against the door instead.

Schuldig hates it when he does that, but he'll give it a pass this time. He speeds up a little, keeps it steady there; fast enough to make good time, not fast enough to stand out. No work for him, that way.

 _Is it something I need to know about?_ he asks after a few dozen kilometers, privately; it could simply be something Nagi shouldn't know.

Crawford shoots him a look from the corner of his eye that's half assessing, half irritated. _It's nothing,_ he answers.

 _I know you better than that. Did you see something?_

There's a long pause; Crawford watches the road in front of them disappearing under the wheels. In the rear view mirror, Nagi's eyes meet Schuldig's briefly before he blinks and looks out the window, his mind half on not-wanting-to-go-to-Rosenkreuz, half mired in an intentionally baffling tangle of math. Schuldig almost regrets working with him on that.

 _No,_ Crawford thinks eventually. _Not exactly._

It's the first time in a long time that Schuldig wonders if Crawford is lying to him, the first time in even longer that he's tempted to slip into his mind and see. But he stays out, eyes fixed on the road, eavesdropping on Nagi's equations and proofs and worries to drown out the sound of Crawford's flat, carefully-shielded silence.

 

The rest of the drive goes more or less in silence; they pass the village at the bottom of the mountain and head up. The closer they get, the harder Nagi thinks about math, about code, the tighter Crawford's shields get.

As they're pulling up, he finally has to say "Give it a _rest,_ Nagi."

Nagi, unbuckling his seat belt, mutters something that almost sounds like an apology, then shoves his door open with slightly more force than is really necessary. Schuldig reaches to turn the engine off, but Crawford stops him, his hand on Schuldig's.

"Don't bother," he says, and Schuldig looks at him blankly. "You'll pick us up again tomorrow at noon."

"He's not coming?" Nagi sounds distinctly unhappy about that. "But--"

"You and I will talk to the Elders tonight -" Nagi's eyes widen, but he stays quiet - "and in the morning we'll pick up Farfarello. Schuldig doesn't need to come."

Schuldig doesn't exactly want to _argue_ with that, because a sudden reprieve from a night at Rosenkreuz sounds great to him, but he doubts Crawford's doing it out of the sweetness of his heart. "And what do you want me to do until then?"

Crawford takes his hand away, clicks out of his seat belt, opens his own door, gets out. "Get a room in town. _Stay out of trouble._ Get here at noon."

His eyes narrow in suspicion, but Schuldig doesn't stop him. _You're hiding something,_ he accuses instead.

Crawford looks back at him, face hard, an edge of anger in him. He looks fucking hot like that, and it's almost - almost - enough to make Schuldig want to stay with him, Rosenkreuz or not. _Stay in town_ , he repeats, and there's no room for argument: that's an order. He closes the door, firmly; Nagi's door closes a second later.

A little bemused, Schuldig sits for a moment and watches them walk off, Nagi tight at Crawford's heels, looking almost like his kid brother in their matching suits, before he shifts the car back into gear and heads back down the mountain.

 

The problem with the town is, simply, that it's fucking boring. There are a few shops with nothing interesting in them: everything _good_ destined for Rosenkreuz comes by mail or courier. There are people, but even Schuldig thinks better of starting trouble here; it may be a boring shithole of a tourist trap, but it's not Rosenkreuz proper, so everyone who's allowed out but has nowhere better to be hangs around. It's not like he minds starting shit with them, but the fact is he no longer has nothing left to lose. The weight of that is heavy, irritating, but he shoves it off. He can survive one night alone and bored; he just doesn't have to like it.

There are fewer agents in town than he'd thought there might have been; he goes hours without seeing a familiar face, browsing through the useless stores with no intention of buying anything, just killing time. And maybe he should have been paying closer attention, because he feels the shock of recognition, of someone thinking about him, before he sees anyone. Once he knows to _look_ , it's obvious who it comes from: bright blue hair is pretty far from subtle, and anyone who ever spent a day in Rosenkreuz never forgets the look of the uniform, no matter how long it's been, no matter what goes wrong in their heads.

Once he's spotted him, though, Schuldig notices three things in quick succession: one, he feels... odd, strangely familiar; two, he's never seen him before; and three, he's too old for the student's uniform he's wearing.

And four: he doesn't run away when Schuldig strolls over to him, nor does he pretend he didn't notice him. He buys the pack of cigarettes in his hand, then turns and watches Schuldig get nearer, his pale brown eyes calm, confident, almost arrogant.

It's such a _Crawford_ look on such an un-Crawford-like face that Schuldig can't help but grin; but he walks right past him, looking him over - nothing subtle about it, a blatant assessment, body and mind - and out the door.

It's a challenge, and nothing less, almost insultingly obvious. He hears the soft mumbling _whrr_ of well-shielded thought behind him (though it doesn't feel natural; whatever this guy is, he's no telepath, though he's better trained than Nagi was, that's for sure - and that's something to tell Crawford, later), then footsteps, the gentle pressure of his mind following him out, down the street.

He doesn't turn, keeps walking down: there's a tiny public park at the end of the street, and while it may not be free of observers, there are traditionally no cameras, no wires. Behind him, his shadow's footsteps lag slightly, an almost undetectable pause as he realizes where they're going, then settle back into a firm, matched pace. Schuldig likes that confidence; he knows the reputation he'd left behind at Rosenkreuz, he knows _he_ knows, can hear - muffled - the echoes of rumors and truths.

When they cross the last street, set foot in the grass, Schuldig turns, walking backwards a few paces, to look at him again. He catches him opening the pack of cigarettes, tapping it on his palm, and holds his hand out, silently.

There's another of those little pauses, then he shakes out two cigarettes and flips one over. Schuldig catches it deftly and tucks it into his mouth, pulling a book of matches from his pocket and lighting up.

The guy watches him do it, a tiny smirk curving his lips; when he lights his own, it's with a simple brush of his finger, a flare of fire bursting at the tip of his cigarette and dying to an ember almost immediately. Pyrokinetic, Schuldig thinks, and one who likes to show off - and more than that, one who's used to having someone else watching his back, because he hadn't checked to see if they were alone.

He takes a deep draw, lets the smoke curl lazily out between them, says: "So what do they call you?"

"Geisel." He's watching Schuldig with the same obviously appraising look, shoulders squared: brave. Maybe stupid. Whichever, it's appealing, same as the unabashedly blue hair, the mystery of who the hell he _is_.

"You haven't been here long, _Geisel._ " He puts a tiny bit of emphasis on the name: even if they're the same age, Geisel's a student and he's not; that means something.

Shrug, smile. "Long enough."

If there's anything Schuldig knows, it's how to tell when someone's hiding something from him, how to ferret out a secret that someone's thinking about but doesn't want to say, shields or not. But he doesn't want Geisel knowing or guessing he's poking around in his mind; that might count as _starting trouble_ , and he _is_ under orders not to. Besides, picking physical fights with a pyrokinetic is not on his list of fun ways to pass an evening.

There are better ways, anyway; a little distraction, and he'll never notice. Schuldig drops his cigarette, barely smoked, and grinds it out under his heel. "Then why are you down here, hmm?" Geisel's irritation at the wasted cigarette is almost a physical tension between them; Schuldig smiles lazily, turns again, walks deeper into the park.

There's no pause this time before Geisel follows him, but he waits a little to answer. "Because I can be," he says, truthful enough, but they both know it's not what Schuldig had really been asking. "Why are _you_ down here?"

Schuldig smiles at the empty park in front of him, lets Geisel wait for his answer in return. Next to an old park bench he stops, turns again; Geisel's hanging back slightly, the cherry of his cigarette glowing more visibly in the dark now that they've come further from the streetlamps of the town, though the moonlight is strong enough to see by. "Because I can be," he echoes.

Geisel takes a long pull on his cigarette, exhales slowly. "Right." There's still confidence in his stance, his face, but Schuldig can see the caution in the way he watches him, the way he's thickening his shields: he's not stupid, then. Not that he'd expected it: stupid people don't last long in Rosenkreuz - but then, this Geisel hasn't exactly had a normal time through Rosenkreuz, has he?

He sets a hand on the bench and leans on it, casually, checks him out again. He's a little scruffy, somewhere between poorly-shaven and late night shadow, but Schuldig doesn't mind that, not really. The uniform doesn't do much for him, but under it it looks like he has a decent body, and the hair - well, he likes that. He's always liked unusual things.

And Crawford _had_ left him high and dry.

"But why are you _here_?" he asks, tapping his fingers on the bench for illustration.

"Following you." Geisel tilts his head back, blows smoke up to the sky; in his hand, his cigarette quickens to flame, then dies down again. It's a warning, clear enough, but it's not Schuldig's intention to fight him here, either. It's less likely they'd be seen, but nowhere near impossible; the path isn't exactly untraveled. "And why are you here?"

Schuldig smirks. "Hoping for some fun," he says, and smirks wider, baring his teeth, as Geisel tenses at that. He licks his lips slowly, deliberately, pointedly, smiles again. "You interested?"

Geisel blinks, caught off guard: his shields slip a bit and Schuldig gets a flash of someone else's thoughts, deeper, stronger. His telepath friend, maybe? Interesting, but not enough to be useful.

He flicks his half-smoked cigarette away; it burns to cold ash in midair.

Showoff, Schuldig thinks again, approvingly. He raises an eyebrow, waiting.

"I don't bottom," Geisel says, watching him.

There's a challenge in the assumption as well as in the words, but it's not one that intimidates Schuldig. "Works for me," he says, pulling his wallet out of his pocket with a toothy grin; besides cash, all that's in it is a condom. Not for times like _these_ , precisely, but you never know. He tosses the condom to Geisel, who catches it. He's good at hiding his surprise, but not good enough that Schuldig doesn't notice.

Closing the distance between them, pressing his advantage, Schuldig kisses him, hard: Geisel's mouth is harsh, like smoke and fire, and that's just fine. It doesn't take him long to respond in kind, either, and that fast it's a fight. He's nothing, compared to Crawford, but he doesn't want to lose, either: and Schuldig can taste the pride in him, the conviction that he's better than Schuldig. Even if he knows it's not true this time around, from this student-who-isn't, _fuck_ , it's always turned him on before and it doesn't stop now.

He's the first one to do more, too; this is what it is, and after all - they _are_ in public, and so by necessity they'll have to be quick about it. Schuldig doesn't do his best jobs of clouding minds when he's being fucked. Reaching down, he strokes over Geisel's hardening cock, cups it, squeezes. Geisel hisses into his mouth and he laughs back, sliding away from the kiss, cheek to cheek, to tilt Geisel's chin up and bite his neck, hard enough to hurt him, to leave a mark.

That gets a snarl and Geisel shoves him back, hard, pushing him to the bench - but follows him there, pulls him back into a kiss. His body is warm in the cool fall night, hotter than a normal man, and Schuldig wonders briefly if he always feels like that - but then Geisel grabs his ass, yanks him close so that they grind against each other, and anything nonessential will just have to wait until later.

Schuldig's the one who pulls back again, reaches down to unzip his own pants; Geisel's hands join his a second later. Their knuckles knock together, hands brushing, but they're fast enough at it that the clumsiness doesn't matter.

Geisel shoves his pants down, fisting his cock briefly with one hand before ripping the condom packet open. It's time enough for Schuldig to get a good look - and _that_ almost makes him sad that it'll have to be fast. But Geisel's already rolling the condom on, slick and shining with lube, and Schuldig turns his back, bends, braces himself on the back of the bench.

Behind him, Geisel spits into his hand, slides two wet fingers into him at once: it's good, but not enough; he moans, deliberately, pushes back to take them further, makes himself into what Geisel wants him to be: easy, needy, weak.

The fingers don't last long; Geisel has them back out of him a few seconds later, his cock pushing in instead. He shoves in slowly, one long, deep thrust, and it stretches and burns so thick and sweet that the noises Schuldig makes are suddenly genuine.

When Geisel starts to fuck him, it's rough, with only the lube from the condom, but he knows what he's doing and Schuldig had been more than ready for it, had been wanting it all evening.

And like he'd known, Geisel's shields crumble faster the more he wants him, the harder he slams into him, thinning out with every desperate, gasping cry from Schuldig. The first thing Schuldig picks up through them, though, is how much Geisel wants someone to _see_ them, to come walking along the path and see him fucking Schuldig.

It's not helpful, but it's fucking hot; he could almost like Geisel, the guy's got some great ideas and he knows how to fuck. Almost without thinking about it, Schuldig wraps his hand around his cock, shifting his balance to brace against one arm. Geisel is quiet behind him except for soft grunts as he bottoms out, his breathing getting louder, more ragged - but he's thinking about Schuldig, about having made him jerk off, about how he's so fucking loud there's no doubt someone will come looking, about how fucking hot that'd be.

" _Harder,_ " he demands, breathlessly; Geisel obliges almost instantly, slamming deep into him, fast and rough, swearing under his breath. He thinks how hot Schuldig is, how tight, how eager; he thinks how much more willing to take it he is than Berger. And Schuldig sees long green hair and angry bluish eyes and the hint of telepathy, and yes, that, that's what he wanted to know.

Then Geisel's hand is in his hair, pulling his head back hard; the sharp pain sends a flash of sugar sweetness through his mouth, drowning out the lingering taste of smoke and nicotine. He gasps, the way it curves his back making Geisel's cock slide in just differently enough to feel new, and he forgets all about finding out more.

"You like that?" Geisel asks, voice rough with exertion and desire, and pulls again; Schuldig cries out hoarsely, half in earnest, half indulging him. " _Fuck,_ " he breathes, and Schuldig feels him bite his own lip hard, trying to use the pain to bring himself back from the edge.

It has the opposite effect on Schuldig, driving him nearly to distraction, especially with the way Geisel's never stopped fucking him, hard and even, long deep thrusts, and the way his thoughts are all about Schuldig again. He jerks himself off faster, his hand choking up just under the head, begs, "God, yes, _please_ ," and hears Geisel's low gasp, feels the way his even thrusts falter, feels his cock jerk heavily inside him.

Geisel's shields are all but gone by now; the intensity of his orgasm crashes almost full force into Schuldig, more than enough to set him off, too.

When he pulls out, it leaves Schuldig sore - pleasantly so, just a lingering ache that makes him slow to fix his pants, the middle of a park or not. By the time he's got them up again and adjusted his jacket and shirt enough to make it less completely obvious what he's done, Geisel's tidied up as well; the condom's tossed away, incinerated, and only the smell of sweat and sex and the wet sheen of Schuldig's come splashed over the back of the bench remain.

"Give me another smoke," Schuldig says, his eyes half-lidded, lazy, but it's not a request; he doesn't want Geisel thinking he's getting away with anything just because Schuldig likes getting fucked.

He lights one with a slow, suggestive caress, holds it out, eyebrow raised; Schuldig leans forward and takes it between his lips, draws, exhales. "Thanks, kid," he says, and what do you know, Geisel hates that as much as Nagi and more. So does the mysterious Berger, who tells him sharply (and Schuldig wonders how far away he is, that he sounds so clear in Geisel's mind; where Rosenkreuz picked up another strong telepath) to shut up and get his shields back up.

And his shields go up: the careful, ponderous building of a non-mentalist. Schuldig steps around the bench and sprawls out on it, legs spread, smoking, pretending he doesn't notice.

"I'll see you," Geisel says, his eyes practically boring holes into Schuldig's back.

"Maybe," Schuldig answers, disaffected; but reshielded or not, he's been in Geisel's mind: it's trivial now for him to listen in, dig a little deeper, as he walks off back towards town.

By the time he's finished the cigarette, by the time Geisel's walked out of his casual range, Schuldig knows a hell of a lot more, has the answers to all his earlier questions - and tomorrow at noon, not even dealing with Farfarello, not even Nagi listening, is going to keep him from having a nice _long_ conversation with Crawford.


End file.
